


Prototypical

by pokey_jr



Series: Only Sequences Change [10]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Frottage, Kissing, M/M, Sparring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-06-27 02:29:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15676194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pokey_jr/pseuds/pokey_jr
Summary: Markus challenges Connor to a few rounds of sparring, and things don't quite go to plan.





	Prototypical

Challenging Connor was a stupid idea, Markus realized, over the course of about five minutes.

Five tense, struggling minutes, and it was still a multi-stage realization, each step of which heightened Markus’ concern that this was a terrible mistake.

Beforehand, and while he was saying it aloud. And when Connor agreed, with a mild nod.

“Human rules,” Connor specified. “I don’t want to damage you too badly.”

Markus briefly considered the array of responses his algorithm provided him with, and chose the one he calculated to have a chance of flustering Connor.

_> TEASE_

“Sure. Assuming you can hit me.”

Connor only regarded him evenly, then began undoing the knot of his tie, after which he shrugged out of his grey jacket. He folded them both, neat and precise.

Watching the prototype’s slim frame, Markus’ systems registered a spike in his own internal thirium-vascular system. _Odd._ Some curious, unusual quirk in his programming, which he didn’t know how to interpret, so he shoved it aside, and undressed to his thin t-shirt.

And during the fight, another facet of the epiphany: Markus reflected that he himself was unique, though not the way Connor was. Connor had algorithms for fighting. Connor had training and experience and, bizarrely, an instinct for it.

Level headed and ruthless and unfailingly polite. Intriguing in the sense that Markus’ programming suggested an entirely different route which involved tangling his fingers in that shiny dark brown hair and kissing him.

Which might be a shade difficult, because Connor was currently kicking his ass.

Despite the human rules, which negated some of the innate brutality machines were able to inflict. For an android to fight another android, the threat of pain was nil, and androids don’t tire, so winning meant disabling the opponent’s critical systems. Not very conducive to sparring. Human rules allowed moves like chokes, arm bars, Connor took advantage of all of them.

He swung at Markus, which Markus was able to deflect, but it was followed up by another punch, and a low kick meant to disable Markus’ left knee joint.

It grazed him. No damage. He shifted his weight, allowing his programming to take over, and flow into a series of elbow strikes aimed at Connor’s vulnerable points. Larger panels on the sides and under the arms, and thus more likely to crack. If he could just get one—

No. Connor anticipated him, moving with the hit and redirecting it.

_Shit._

He grabbed the back of Markus’ neck and controlled him to the ground, with his knee firmly on Markus’ back. Ten second tap out. Markus struggled, unable to get leverage and said, “I concede.”

“That was quick.”

Markus didn’t get a chance to be irritated by Connor’s subtle barb, because he held out his hand, and helped Markus up.

The next round, Connor came at him swinging, moving with such speed that Markus didn’t have a chance to process it. Connor’s stupid, perfect fist caught him in the jaw, made his head snap around, Optical units and gyroscopes all cut out for a second.

Visual field went static, the delicate apparatus that kept him balanced upright failed.

Disoriented, he staggered back. Only another strike, this time to his abdomen, flipped everything back on. He saw Connor, fist clenched, and literally white-knuckled; the blow had been strong enough to disrupt the skin-mesh overlay.

Markus took a knee. He’d felt that one. It hadn’t hurt, of course. (He often wondered if there really was a difference between emotional pain vs physical. If maybe he, and all androids, just processed the input differently.) It had been a vicious hit, though.

_> RUN SYSTEMS DIAGNOSTIC_

Markus took stock of any damage to essential biocomponents, skeletal structure, and plastic composite housing.

Nothing major. A slight crack in the panel where Connor had landed the blow. Impressive. A slightly loosened thirium-vascular connection, which would only affect his optional heating system. Connor’s second hit had knocked the optical units and gyroscopes back to functional.

He felt so volatile compared to Connor. Rough around the edges. Connor’s movements reminded him of fencing.

Carl had shown him, 458 days ago, though Markus was surprised to recognize that although his internal clock counted the time precisely, something else in his program—the deviant part— _felt_ something about the passage of time. Nostalgia, and by the same token that it was hardly removed at all.

Carl had played videos for him, a portrait of the artist as a young man, he’d joked, at tournaments. His main event was foil but he competed sabre as well. These had been from before Carl’s accident, of course; Markus had taken note of the way, even now, his left hand twitched and turned on the arm of his wheelchair, imitating the wrist movements of the fencers onscreen.

Connor was similarly elegant, and hard to read.

This time he didn’t help Markus up. Markus tamped down distracting thoughts—that Connor was entirely too handsome, more than he had any right to be, and it made Markus want to punch him in the face, or better yet, fuck him, just push him down, kick his legs apart and--

_No. Focus._ Prototypes like him probably didn’t have protocols for that, even though he was Deviant. 

Realization part four came when Connor fluidly evaded what Markus had thought would be a solid uppercut; he stepped to one side, as if allowing Markus to pass in a narrow corridor, and Markus only narrowly avoided stumbling forward off balance.

“Shit,” he grunted, used the momentum to drive his shoulder into Connor’s abdomen, and take him to the ground.

Grappling wasn’t any easier.

Connor almost pinned him, the same way he had the first time, but Markus got out of it, turned it around.

He was determined. He was going to win something from this, and his blood was up, as much an android can be riled.  
If he were human, this would be when he’d be sweating and panting and tired and sore.

Connor wasn’t tired. Mild and dispassionate, he resisted Markus’ attempts to arm-bar him, fought him off and rolled the two of them again, so he was straddling Markus’ hips.

Foundering, frustrated and outmatched, Markus reached, and grabbed for something—anything—the first thing he found purchase in. Connor’s perfect, dark shiny hair. Here, finally, was his one advantage: his buzz cut allowed Connor no such purchase. He twisted his fingers in it harder than necessary, wrenching to one side.

And Connor _moaned._ A helpless, desperate, wonderful sound.

Both of them froze. Connor’s mask had cracked, his lips parted, warm brown eyes wide, and Markus still, for the life of him, couldn’t quite read him, except for the fact that he wanted to fucking _kiss him already._

So he did.

He pulled Connor to him, hand still gripping his hair.

A base urgency compelled him now, Deviance taking hold and guiding him, rather than precisely defined algorithms. He pressed his lips to Connor’s, marveled how soft they were. How pliant Connor was, and yet unsure, until Markus lifted his hips, letting Connor feel the hard ridge of his growing erection.

Connor made another sound, a little deeper, a little more confident. He leaned forward, cleaving his chest to Markus’, rolling his hips and grinding his hardening cock against Markus’ stomach. 

The kiss deepened, transcending this cold, sterile, plastic existence. Markus thrilled at the sensations, at the input overload, at the delighted curiosity behind Connor’s mild façade. The whimpers and gasps he made, the incessant rocking of his hips which let Markus feel his thick length, and his hands pulling at Markus’ thin t-shirt.

He wanted more and didn’t quite know what to do to achieve it.

Markus broke the embrace, though wasn’t quite ready to let go of Connor’s hair; he carded his fingers through it, enjoying the wayward lock that always seemed to fall out of place.

“That was an unusual strategy,” Connor remarked pleasantly, as if immune to the facts of the situation. “I think I have to yield this round, don’t I?”

Markus smirked, dropped his free hand to Connor’s ass (also perfect) and squeezed. “Sure, you can tap out now if you want. But wouldn’t you rather wait and see how you feel after I fuck you?”


End file.
